


Scars on Your Heart are Still Mine

by valkyriered



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dry Humping, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyriered/pseuds/valkyriered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabe breaks Jack's favorite mug, which starts an unproductive conversation about why their relationship doesn't work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars on Your Heart are Still Mine

He shouldn’t have done it.  
  
He regrets it immediately— it was a stupid argument over stupid things, and being angry isn’t an excuse to break shit. He’s had a hard time shrugging off the persona of Reaper, letting Mercy try to undo some of the damage, but it still leaves him violent, itching to break things or hurt someone.  
  
And too often, that someone is Jack.  
  
He stares at the broken mug on the floor. It’s crappy white porcelain, considering how easily it shattered. Hana clearly bought it off the internet. They could’ve done better, there are better mugs out there. But still. It’s Jack’s favorite. It was a gift, a sweet gesture that solidified his place in the lives of the other members of the new Overwatch. Gabe had teased him relentlessly for it, but Jack would just blush and sip his coffee and ignore the titters of those around him. “#1 Dad”, indeed.  
  
And Gabe had backhanded it off the table. His eyes dart up to look at Jack, who doesn’t seem… angry, really. He’s surprised Jack’s not yelling or ordering him out of the room. In fact, Jack doesn’t seem to be doing anything at all. His face is a little screwed up, kind of flushed, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks over to the mess on the floor, kneels down, and starts picking up the pieces.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Gabe says, stupidly, but he doesn’t make a move to help Jack pick up the mess.  
  
“It’s fine.” Jack won’t look at him. In fact, he has his shoulders hunched to hide his face. “It’s just a mug.”  
  
“It’s not—“ Gabe swallows. “It was _yours_.”  
  
“There are other mugs.” Jack says, and Gabe can practically hear the knot in his throat.  
  
“It’s not the same.” Gabe says. “I know it’s not the same.”  
  
“Yeah, well.” Jack stands up, cradling the broken bits of mug in his hand. “It’s too late now.” He brushes past Gabe and steps out of the kitchen. He doesn’t even slam the door. Gabe would’ve felt better if he’d slammed the door.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Gabe says to the empty room, and he hates himself for being so melodramatic. He hates that his fingers still itch to break more stuff, and looking down at his breakfast has his stomach turning. He spills the remaining food into the trash, carefully places his dish in the dishwasher. No need for more breaking shit today.  
  
He gets his gun and immediately heads down to the range, because right now he just needs to work out theanger rolling under his skin. He flexes his finger around the trigger. It feels good, to have the weight of his gun in his hands. When he’d first turned himself in to Overwatch, they didn’t let him have his gun. They didn’t even let him wander the halls— first it was a holding cell, and then an escort, and then freedom— but only if he checked in at certain hours. It took months before they finally trusted him enough to give him his weapons back.  
  
He aims carefully, squeezes off a few rounds. They all hit dead center, and he’s almost disappointed by it. Shooting stuff isn’t nearly as visceral as the act of breaking something. He hears the door to the range opening, and knows without looking that it’s Jack. Of course it’s Jack. When something’s bothering him, he stews on it until he gets to talk about it. Gabe reloads, shoots another round of bullets.  
  
Jack steps up silently next to him, preps his own pulse rifle before shooting off a round of his own. They go like that in silence for a few minutes, before Gabe finally lays his gun down.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I wanted to talk about earlier.” Jack has his mask on, and Gabe kind of hates it. He can’t gauge how Jack is feeling. The stupid visor makes him completely unreadable.  
  
“What about it?”  
  
Jack takes his sweet fucking time shutting down his pulse rifle, checking it over while Gabe practically vibrates with anxiety. Jack must be loving this shit. Gabe is so often the one that keeps him hanging. “It’s messed up. The stuff that you do.” Jack tells him.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“No, I don’t think you do.” Jack looks straight at him, and even with the visor up Gabe knows the look on his face. “I mean— I get it. I get that you’re angry. And that whatever the fuck— whatever is wrong with you, it makes it worse. But when—“ He cuts himself off, abruptly looking down at the ground. “ _Fuck_.” He hisses. Paces away.  
  
“Jack.” And _God_ , he looks agitated. His shoulders are all hunched up, the back of his neck is bright red. Gabe takes a cautious step forward, lays a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. He shrugs it off immediately. _Okay_.  
  
“Y’know, it’s fine when we fight. Sometimes it even feels good, when I can hit you for the shit that you’ve said to me.” Jack lapses into silence for a moment. “But it fucking _hurts_ , knowing that— that you’re so _mad_ at me, that all you can do is hit me or break something.”  
  
Gabe has nothing to say to that. He was hoping that this conversation would go differently— that Jack would chide him for breaking a mug, that Gabe would buy a replacement, and things would be good again. Well, not _good_. Okay, maybe. Liveable. “I’m sorry.” Gabe says, like it’s the only thing he knows how to say. He doesn’t know what else he _could_ say.  
  
“I _know_!” Jack grits out, and Gabe knows if he removed that mask right now Jack’s eyes would be damp, and his face flushed, because Gabe has seen Jack frustrated-enough-to-cry too many times to count. Even now, he still cries too easily. “Fuck, you think I don’t _know_ that?” Jack rounds on Gabe. “I _hate_ you for that! I hate that you can’t fucking change! What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!”  
  
“I don’t know.” Gabe says, and it feels like something is squeezing his chest so hard it hurts. There’s a lump in his throat. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  
  
“ _Fuck_.” Jack hisses, and then he’s grabbing at Gabe, pulling him into a messy approximation of a hug. He’s shaking all over, but Gabe can tell that he hasn’t started crying yet. He’d know if Jack were crying, just like he knows everything else about him. Jack’s grabbing at him, tugging at him, pulling at his own mask until it clatters to the floor, and Gabe gets a brief glimpse of his flushed, damp face before Jack is shoving his tongue into his mouth.  
  
Gabe lets himself be kissed, only registering moments later what’s actually happening. His hands automatically move to Jack’s waist, to his ass. He squeezes just-too-hard and Jack groans into his mouth and presses harder against him. They’re grinding against each other, but their rhythm is off and they’re both too fucked up to really do anything about it, so it doesn’t matter. It sounds like Jack is crying and it _tastes_ like it, and Gabe grabs Jack by the hair and holds him still so he can lick the tears off of his face. “I hate you.” Jack gasps, grinding hard against him.  
  
“Yeah.” Gabe murmurs back, shoves at Jack until he’s pressed against the wall. “I know, okay. _Mierda_.” It’s gross that they’re doing it in the shooting range, which is already plenty dirty and horrifyingly public. Jack is normally hyper-aware of public displays off affection, and rarely touches Gabe in front of their teammates.  
  
“C’mon.” Jack gasps, whines when Gabe shoves a thigh in between his legs. “C’mon, Gabe. Fuck.” He makes no move to undo their belts, though, and Gabe resigns himself to washing out his pants later. He feels like he’s watching this whole thing from a distance, even though he’s already half-hard and fucking Jack into the wall so hard his head slams against the plaster.  
  
“Shit, are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine. Harder.” Jack demands, and he’s always been demanding. He’s such a fucking princess in bed, even when bed means up against a wall in a semi-public space. Gabe grabs at one of his thighs and hooks it around his hips and really goes to town, rutting up against Jack so slow and dirty that he’s gasping for it and writhing where he’s pinned between Gabe’s hips and the wall.  
  
“You gonna come?” Gabe asks, low and soft and pressing his mouth to Jack’s ear. “You gonna come for me?” He presses a kiss to his throat.  
  
“Fuck you.” Jack bites out, but his eyes are glazed over and his face is pink, and there are still a few tears dripping down his face. “I fucking hate you.”  
  
“I know, _cariño_.” Gabe murmurs. “C’mon. Come for me.” He breathes, shoving his hand into Jack’s pants and strokes him once, twice, before Jack shudders and then goes limp against the wall. He withdraws his hand. It’s damp and sticky and he wipes it on his pants. Whatever. He’ll clean them later.  
  
“Did you finish?” Jack asks, wiping at his face. He shoves at Gabe, releasing himself from where he was pressed against the wall. There’s a small crack where Jack’s head had met the wall, a bit of blood, but Gabe’s not worried.  
  
“Nah.” Gabe shrugs. “Didn’t really want to.”  
  
“Okay.” Jack leans down to pick up his mask. He clicks it into place immediately, and Gabe’s not sure if he’s trying to reclaim some of his dignity or what. He picks up his rifle and turns to walk out.  
  
“I’ll replace the mug, okay?” Gabe calls after him.  
  
Jack doesn’t say anything, just steps out and lets the door slam behind him.  
  
The next morning Jack is sipping out of the same #1 Dad mug, scrolling through a datapad and reading something or other. Hana and Lucio are beside him, chatting about a game. Gabe watches this all from a distance. Jack still won’t look at him.  
  
Turns out, Satya had used the original pieces to fix the mug for him. Apparently hard-light can do some amazing things.

**Author's Note:**

> why do i keep doing this? no idea. this started off with the intention of being fluffy and... devolved. Per usual. hope you enjoyed this sadness. to be honest i kind of hacked this out in an hour with 0 proofreading so this is probably riddled with errors, please let me know if you find any. title from Rihanna's "Woo" off of ANTI, which you should ALL LISTEN TO.


End file.
